


Hello (It's You I'm Looking For)

by sassmasterfromdoncaster



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Bad Jokes, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-05-04 11:27:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5332451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassmasterfromdoncaster/pseuds/sassmasterfromdoncaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scholarship student Louis is trying to cram before his exam the next day but Harry is being too loud in the library by blasting music or laughing at youtube videos so Louis yells at him but winds up seeing him all over campus and Harry trips all over himself trying to apologize.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hello (It's You I'm Looking For)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lalune15](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalune15/gifts).



> Hello, hello! As this is a pinch-hit and I haven't written anything in several years, I hope this little thing does your prompt justice! I made some minor adjustments; hope they're not too jarring... Happy exchange! :)

It takes him five minutes to sharpen each of the three pencils to the optimum length (6.7 millimetres, thank you very much), and another minute or so to evenly space them just _so_ along the desktop. Because Louis Tomlinson is Incredibly Serious About His Education, which explains the last seventeen minutes alphabetizing and color-coding every study implement in his mess of a backpack to create the perfect environment in Study Room A7. Outside is painful, the expanse of perfectly-groomed grounds soon to be saccharine-sweet with sunshine and neon-hued crop tops, the shyest flirtation of pleasant weather this early into March causing all of campus to lose their collective mind.

Not that he’s jealous. Serious Student Louis Tomlinson has no time for backyard hot dog eating contests, beer pong, and Richter scale-worthy hangovers. Worked such foolishness out of his system ages ago, up to and including the fifteen minutes spent in the toilet preceding his heel-dragging to the library this morning. Who the fuck visits the campus library before noon on a Saturday? Already passed that one obnoxious front row middle-aged arsehole with an actual fucking notebook devoted to lecture questions on his way in; seems the type. Place is almost as silent as a tomb; perfect. He’s not here to study anyway; he’s just polishing some things, yeah? Thesis practically wrote itself.

Louis leans back in his under-stuffed monstrosity of a chair, twirling a pencil that he’s fairly certain is no younger than fifteen years old, eyebrow furrow clearly displaying his frustration and ire. The _audacity_ of his laptop to innocently display his word processing document, a good two-thirds unfinished, typing cursor blinking in an infinite loop. The problem wasn’t his thesis topic itself - he’d run his mouth about groundbreaking studies documenting drama as a viable means of therapy in children and adolescents to anyone who would listen many lifetimes ago in September, and many, many more who wouldn’t. It’s fucking interesting, and his last check-in had gone remarkably well - Professor Worthington seemed as genuinely interested as Louis was in his work. 

It’d been a shitty winter. Things at home were… rough. Blessings abound to having run into Zayn at the technology desk two months into his first year. Wouldn’t’ve been able to deal with a flatmate who’d demand rehashes of all the drama of sisters and remarriages and spending most of a month’s stipend on train rides to Donny and back. Wasn’t… he’d do the same a million times over for his girls, but his thesis had become a seldom-visited island when the weather was particularly rough. It’s nearly two months later and Louis can’t hardly remember his original path of brimming enthusiasm, let alone the means to fight his usual failing battle against procrastination. Never was much of a fighter to begin with. Wrong build.

Anyway. Magic time. Many thanks to the Red Bull gods.

Plastic cup raised in toast to the ceiling, Louis wipes off last night’s sweat and whatever the hell it is from his forehead and gets to work.

 

It’s not until a majority of the library’s collection of academic psychology and drama journals and many, many, many (two) hours have passed that Louis shakes himself from the intellectual haze, startled by the jarring boom of door handle against plaster. Ah. A new neighbor. “Morning to you too, A8.” Louis mutters to his mobile, which greets him with exactly zero notifications. Typical. The coveted number of study rooms would be well-occupied come afternoon, the definition of the word “study” being loosely defined. Unfortunately. 

Still, Louis’s made decent progress, a good three thousand words further than he’d been previously, and he’s feeling rather optimistic about the work’s direction. It isn’t until the party next door truly becomes a _party next door_ that the bitter aftertaste of not enough sleep and too many poor decisions becomes unbearable.

Whoever it is, they have a godawful laugh. A true abomination, the bizarre mating between a goose honk and a hyena giggle. Jesus, what the fuck is that laugh? Louis pounds on the wall a few times for good measure. 

There are a few seconds of blissful, beautiful silence before the laugh is back, the lad promptly losing his shit over what must clearly be The Most Hilarious Thing. 

The Most Hilarious Thing turns out to be the fucking Double Rainbow [video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OQSNhk5ICTI). “What the fuck.” Louis throws up his hands, tearing his earbuds away from his laptop by the sheer force of his ears. “What is this, 2010?” 

Godawful Laugh is joined by what Louis immediately dubs as Irish Cackle, a somewhat more choked but equally offensive version of vocal strangling. Clearly the sound on their operating system is turned all the way up to eleven and neither of the two have the decency to split a pair of fucking earbuds. Honestly.

But Louis is a Serious Student who really needs to finish his damn thesis, so he turns his own music up until he’s fairly certain he’s bleeding from both eardrums and produces a thousand mostly-incoherent words on the validity of control grouping versus variable. 

He does, however, cross the line at the Macarena.

His tact and patience being frayed six songs ago, Louis finds himself stomping over to Study Room A8, not even providing the two with the decency of knocking beforehand. “Listen, mates! Know it’s fucking Saturday, but this is a library, innit? Trying to knock out me thesis, can’t understand me own fucking thoughts with all this fucking trash—“

It can certainly be said that Louis has a big mouth, and is rather fond of using it at any given opportunity, but he also has two fucking eyes that he could benefit from using before he opens the damn trap. Godawful Laugh and Irish Cackle have pushed together the two study worktops to form a makeshift stage, and are currently performing the filthiest and most pathetic version of the Macarena that Louis has ever witnessed at university. Which is saying something.

“Alright, alright, alright!” Obviously Irish Cackle hollers back, dropping down to his haunches to lower the silver laptop’s volume. “Didn’t think there’d be anyone here, for fuck’s sake!” Irish Cackle is peroxide-blond and wiry, friendly face painted something awful with an irritated scowl. 

“Fucking library, mate,” Louis replies, crossing the too-long arms of his hoodie against his chest. “Shit place for a dance party, yeah?”

“We’re sexiled.”

And wait—yeah, Godawful Laugh is still standing on the table, and yeah, Godawful Laugh has a really deep, sexy voice, in an octave that Louis never even knew existed, and yeah, Godawful Laugh’s half-buttoned floral shirt and skin-tight jeans are really the anomaly in this situation, but Louis finds himself assessing his own hoodie-joggers-dirty slip-ons combination as a reflex of pure self-disgust. 

“You’re, er, what?” Smooth fucker, Louis Tomlinson.

“Sexiled,” Godawful Laugh repeats gloomily, dropping his bum to the tabletop in such an impressive display of thigh muscle control that Louis’s mouth involuntarily drops a good couple of centimeters. “Got carried away. Sorry.”

“Oh.” Yes, well, keep the charm coming, Tommo. “That’s shit. Bit early, eh?”

“You’d think.” Irish Cackle rolls his eyes, hands busily typing on the keyboard even as his focus settles on Louis. “Shit flatmate, more like.”

“We’ll keep it down,” Godawful Laugh adds quickly, right hand sweeping up and backwards to cause a cascade of perfectly-formed curls to fall about his perfectly-chiseled face. “Theses are… serious stuff.”

“Uh.” Louis flexes his calves, raising himself the slightest bit off the ground. Shouldn’t’ve tucked his joggers into his socks in his dizzy preparation for this morning’s writing extravaganza. “Yeah, suppose.”

“Could… make it up to you?” Godawful Laugh’s cheeks stain themselves the most delicate, prettiest shade of pink. Not that Louis noticed. “Sofia’s got good coffee—”

“Know that, mate,” Louis cuts in, voice sharpened as if threatened, because this situation is starting to rub him the wrong fucking way. “Think I’d—“

“Like to know our names, first, eh?” Irish Cackle snorts amusedly, nudging the seated man with the side of his leg, the latter looking equal parts irritated and relieved. “This here’s Harry, I’m Niall. First years.”

“Could’ve guessed that bit,” Louis replies with a smirk, easily countering Niall’s flipped V with one of his own. “”m Louis. Writing me Drama thesis, like I said.”

“Music,” Niall says, nodding appreciatively. After a beat, he continues on in a higher, posh accent, syllables dripping from his lips. “Harry’s in the Literature programme. _Poetry_.”

Harry’s green eyes squint together in annoyance, chin tilting and falling open in a firm line. “Honestly, Niall—“

“Probably seen Zayn around, yeah?” Louis interjects, because the tension compounding in the air is more than thick, and he’s not fucking clueless. “Helps run the Writing Centre on weekdays.”

Smugness suits Harry just fine, eyebrows lifting knowingly in his friend’s direction. Niall’s sudden interest in his screen does little to disguise his own rapidly-reddening face. “Yeah, Niall—er, we’re— we’re familiar with Zayn. He’s brilliant. Always read his contributions in the literary arts leaflet.”

“He’s my flatmate,” Louis replies, scratching at the back of his neck, prickling with what very well may be the end of this unexpected conversation. “Er. Well, better get back to—“

“What, and toss aside Harry’s offer of a perfectly good coffee?” Niall shuts his laptop with a click, all trace of discomfort erased. “C’mon, Lou—“

“Tommo,” Louis offers up, Niall’s eyes immediately crinkling in delight.

“Tommo! You probably need a break anyway, expect you weren’t getting much done on account of us.”

“Er, ’s’alright,” Louis replies, watching Harry shrug into a dark blue peacoat out of the corner of his eye. Bloody hell. “Macarena does wonders for me productivity.”

“Not anymore,” Harry says, lips curling into the slightest hint of a cheeky smile. “Let’s get the tarantella out of here.”

“Harry, that was honestly the worst fuckin’ joke—“

 

The thing is, Niall’s great. Niall’s a riot. Niall’s a seamless transition into Louis’s preexisting friend group, with more than a casual, passing interest in Zayn Malik, if his hilarious reaction whenever Louis mentions his flatmate indicates anything. Niall’s currently describing the most magnificent cheese toastie as they weave their way across campus, Irish lilting easily into the proper Italian terms for each type of cheese, hands illustrating each step in the process. Louis hardly ever bothers venturing to this side of campus, associating mostly with drama third-years and his own lad crew, but it’s certainly a morning well spent. Hell, he can’t remember the last time he’d laughed so hard, let along multiple times within fifteen minutes.

The thing is, Harry is _lovely_. Too lovely. Quieter and infinitely more thoughtful than either Niall or Louis, the former makes a consistent effort to keep Harry involved in the conversation, slow and careful voice soothing no matter the topic. Even the godawful laugh that had assisted in Louis’s labeling of him (because Louis is truly an awful person, fuck) is oddly enchanting, escaping whenever Louis attempts anything remotely resembling humor and collected by two huge hands. The long legs Louis had stealthily admired back in the tragically romantic library fluorescents prove to be hindrances, as Harry manages to stumble into three different people over the course of their brief campus crossing, Louis’s palm falling to the small of the lad’s back when the crowds grow thicker and more complicated. 

“Y’alright, Harry?” Louis peers over at the other man, hand probably burning a fucking hole through the wool of Harry’s peacoat. Christ, those curls were attractive. 

“Hmm?” Harry replies, wide eyes settling on Louis, lifting briefly, and then reestablishing their territory. “Oh. Uh. Yeah. Balance’s a bit shit.”

“Get used to it,” Niall contributes with a shrug, reaching the stoop of Sofia’s and tugging on the front door handle. “Harry’s a real klutz.”

“Hey,” Harry pouts, passing through the front door and immediately flattening himself along the back wall of the café, legs crossed loosely in front of him. “Rude.”

“Truthful.” Niall smirks, turning his attention to Louis. “So, your poison? Americano? Cappuccino? Or do you like one of those fucking American whipped things that is mostly fucking powder?”

“More of a tea man, mate,” Louis laughs, shoving his hands into the pockets of his joggers now that their purpose of steering fit tattooed first-years had been exhausted. “Tall Yorkshire, if they have it, splash of milk, no s— Ah, fuck me.”

It’s not quite noon, so the identity of the caller attempting to reach him for the fifth time in two minutes remains disappointingly transparent. Louis pulls out his mobile with a groan, the heartbreaking, violin-heavy [melody](http://yslboner.tumblr.com/post/134100675875/3) of one of One Direction’s latest love ballads no longer muffled. Because Louis is a fucking onion, made up of fucking layers, and he shamelessly fucking loves One Direction. But L’s already left two voicemails. Shit.

“Sorry lads, gotta take this.” Louis sighs, free hand rubbing across his forehead and flicking that particularly pesky bit of fringe out of the way. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. “I’ll see… I’ll see you around, yeah?”

Niall nods and waves, but Harry appears as though Louis had taken out his adorable two front teeth with one particularly well-aimed punch. Louis smiles apologetically, because Harry is pretty fucking gorgeous, yeah, and Louis would uni-budget wine and campus restaurant dine him, yeah, but between his family and the thesis deadline looming a mere six weeks away, Harry would be a fantastic distraction. Louis doesn’t need a distraction. And yeah. Harry deserves better.

“I’ll see you around, yeah?” Louis repeats, setting a hand gently on Harry’s hip, watching as the crease between the other man’s brows grows deeper.

“Need to make it up to you,” Harry protests, just this side of pouting. It’s adorable.

“Raincheck,” Louis grins, squeezing gently, as his mobile starts up for the sixth and final time.

He doesn’t plan on cashing it in.

 

 

It’s the better part of three weeks before he thinks of Harry again. Actively and decently, as he’s twenty-one and possesses such things as needs and happens to remember Harry’s bum in crystal clarity, but for the most part, the events of that spring Saturday morning slip into obscurity between Louis’s thesis and the frantic campus courier shifts he maintains to keep up his scholarship. He’s just settled against the uncomfortable glass of a city bus window, depending on the predictable stops and starts to coax him into sleep on the way back to his flat, when a particularly aggressive ray of sunshine attaches itself to the nearest glittery object. Not just any glittery object, but a golden, glittery bike helmet. 

Louis twists slightly in his seat, jostling the dreadlocked girl tragically and unfortunately seated next to him, but he knows those curls, somehow appearing windswept and gorgeous under a golden, glittery bike helmet. Honestly. Met the lad once and it’s unmistakeable. Harry. 

He doesn’t press his nose to the window, as he’s not five fucking years old, but as traffic adjusts itself and the helmet weaves closer, Louis ever so casually hopes that he’ll get a glimpse. Because fuck, that jawline could cut glass and Louis’s unattainable heart into an infinite amount of unrecognizable pieces. A golden, _glittery_ bike helmet. Honestly.

As a golden, glittery bike helmet was not nearly enough punishment from the universe, Harry glances up at the bus at the absolute worst moment possible, nearly crashing into the car directly ahead with what already appears to be a third-hand bicycle. Louis watches with muffled horrified laughter as Harry awkwardly pedals backwards, waving his arms apologetically and sheepishly sitting back down, attention immediately refocusing on Louis’s captive and highly-amused audience.

 _“Louis!”_ It’s not much louder than the mouthing of the simple syllables that comprise his name, but the Harry of reality is as devastating as the fantasy one, cheeks flushed from the chill and eyes sparkling as soon as he rips off his dark aviators. “Louis!”

“Harry,” Louis mouths back, with an uncomfortable little wave that does not at all impress Dreadlock Girl. Scooting closer to the window, he breathes hard on the surface, drawing a large H and double-crossed smiley in what is possibly the shittiest declaration of mutual attraction of all time. Harry beams back, dimples visible even from two meters below, and Louis is absolutely, completely, not even remotely smitten. Who wears a fucking glittery bike helmet?

And no, he’s not sitting on his feet when the bus takes a left and Harry is prevented from moving forward from the completely dangerous actions of a bread van, Louis craning his neck until the helmet is fully out of sight. He doesn’t trace the H written in dust and dirt on the windowpane. He doesn’t. He doesn’t.

 

Zayn’s there to greet him after his nine o’clock Theatre and Politics course the next morning, casually leaning against the retaining wall to finish the last of his clove cigarette and attracting the attention of seemingly everyone within a five-kilometre radius. Louis scoffs, hiking the straps of his backpack higher up on his shoulders, crossing the uneven cobblestones to join him. He didn’t spend two hours meticulously crafting his quiff and outfit this morning only to be out-thwarted by Zayn in a ripped-up denim jacket and combat boots.

“The fuck you want?” Louis grumbles, pulling out his own pack of Marlboros and judging the minimum amount of distance away from the building that he can get away with a fag. “Bit early for you, innit?”

Zayn rolls his eyes, hand dropping to tug at the belt loop of Louis’s super-skinny lad-pulling jeans. “Saw something interesting.”

Zayn’s idea of interesting is _King Lear_ and Machiavellianistic interpretations, so Louis allows himself to be dragged along, expectations low and threshold of patience lower. He’s determined to casually lurk about the greens today, in case he runs into Niall, or better yet, hears that obnoxious fucking laugh— 

Zayn coughs beside him, Louis glancing up at the message board they’ve stopped in front of. It’s covered in the usual mix of flat shares and dick-lengthening adverts, here and there an actual university-related special event, and in the very fucking front, Lionel Ritchie.

  
 

“Oh my _god_ ,” Louis coughs out, pressing a hand to his chest and resisting the urge to burst into laughter. “What a fucking twat.”

“Trying to get your attention, eh.” Zayn replies with a smirk, eyes tracing the movement of Louis tearing every fucking slip off the sign and shoving his hand in his pocket for his mobile, struggling to keep the smile off his lips.

“Well,” Louis presses the ten numbers in his phone and holds it up to his ear. “Worked, didn’t it?”

The other line picks up almost immediately.

“Harry? It’s me, Louis.”


End file.
